


Penance for the Devil

by BeaArthurPendragon



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: BDSM, Barebacking, Bottom Matt Murdock, Dom Frank Castle, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, M/M, Matt Murdock is Exhausting, POV Frank Castle, Rough Sex, Smut, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-20 22:00:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16563920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeaArthurPendragon/pseuds/BeaArthurPendragon
Summary: Matt's got a guilty conscience, and turns to Frank to purge his sins. An act of contrition in 5 acts and 21 F-bombs.





	Penance for the Devil

**Author's Note:**

> For [dawittiest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawittiest/pseuds/dawittiest), for challenging me to step way the fuck out of my comfort zone. 
> 
> Fill for this [Daredevil Kink Meme](https://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/5176.html?thread=18466616#cmt18466616) prompt. TV not comics, though.
> 
> Abandon all hope, ye who enter, because this one's pretty dark.

He’s parked on a roof at the corner of 34th and 10th, eye in his scope, finger on the trigger, and the wind just right, when a boot crashes across his field of view and sends the sniper rifle spinning across the tarpaper.

“You’re a real pain in my ass, Red, you know that?”

“We had a deal. The Kitchen’s mine.”

“Good thing I’m not _in_ the Kitchen, then,” Frank says, jerking his head down toward West 34th below. “That’s the Kitchen. This is Chelsea.”

“That gun’s aimed at the Kitchen.”

“Wrong. It’s aimed _over_ the Kitchen because the _bullet_ ’s gonna hit that boat docking across the river in Jersey, you blind fuck,” Frank spits, pointing 10 degrees to the northwest, over the Javits Center. “It took me over an hour to set up that shot. Christ.”

But Red’s not in the mood to discuss the finer points of marksmanship tonight. “I don’t believe you,” he says roughly, then quick as lightning he’s in Frank’s face, one hand clamped around Frank’s shoulder like a vise, the other curled into a fist burying itself into his gut. “You don’t set foot in the Kitchen, drop a body in the kitchen, or so much as point your fucking weapon at my Kitchen, do you understand?”

Red’s fist gets him good, but Frank’s Kevlar dampens the worst of it; he lets Red tire himself out a little bit against the body armor before abruptly closing the already-scant distance between them to grab his wrist and twist it behind his back in a hold tight enough and close enough that Red can’t find the leverage to wriggle out of.

But the ornery little fuck’s never gonna give up so easy, and Frank’s not surprised when his next move is to stomp Frank’s foot. Though to be fair, he probably hurts himself more than he hurts Frank when his foot just skids off the top of Frank’s steel-toe and he pitches backward painfully against his twisted-up arm.

Frank realizes too late that’s been the plan all along, that Red’s deliberately throwing his momentum backward to pull Frank off balance and it works, fuck, because the next thing he knows he’s tumbling ass over teakettle against the tarpaper roof, bloodying his cheek and ear against the grit. Red’s sprawled over him, grappling and hitting and kicking and Frank’s trying to give as good as he got. Red’s pissed, he could tell—he’s just brawling like a playground bully, all his fancy footwork forgotten as he whales away on Frank with no real goal in mind other than to hurt him.

Or, Frank realizes, to get him to hurt him back.

Because all of Red’s rage can’t overcome the fact that Frank has four inches and at least forty pounds on this wiry motherfucker, and it’s only a matter of time before Frank hashim pinned well and good on his back. Oh, there’s some useless flailing and a good spit in the face, but Frank has physics on his side, and now that he’s lost his shot at McDowell, he has all the time in the world. Christ, Red’s exhausting when he’s feeling Catholic, and Frank’s in no mood to play the obliging Roman.

“You done now?” Frank asks once he starts to slow down.

“Fuck you, Frank.” Red’s still breathing hard, still pushing back a little, but Frank’s hands are shackled to his wrists and his shins are biting deep into the groove where Red’s thighs meet his knees.

“I don’t know what’s got your panties in a bunch, Red. I kept my side of the deal. Ain’t my fault your blind ass don’t know how to aim a gun.”

Red just grunts, because no, of course he ain’t done, he’s just been resting, and now the stubborn little shit’s bucking again, straining for enough leverage to displace enough of Frank’s weight to get out from under him.

“Stay _down_ ,” Frank growls, redoubling his grip and glancing down to make sure Red’s not getting too loose under there.

Oh, fuck Christ.

Frank looks back up at Red’s face, but Red seems indifferent to what Frank’s seen; his face is still twisted in a grimace of determination as he struggles against Frank’s weight.

“You need a little privacy there, Red?” Frank asks, finally climbing off him to sit on the tarpaper next to him. He’s no stranger to an adrenaline boner himself, but he’s no stranger to other reasons, either, and he’s been around the block enough times to know the difference.

“Fuck off,” Red grunts, rolling away from him.

“Suit yourself,” Frank says gruffly.

Red doesn’t reply, just lies there curled on his side, forcing himself to slow his breathing down enough so he can fill his lungs properly again. Eventually he rocks himself up into a kneel, and then slowly rises to his feet, his hands curled into his fists.

“Oh, hell no,” Frank growls, leaping to his feet and pushing Red roughly against the cinderblock enclosure surrounding the rooftop HVAC and hooking his thumb into the back waistband of his pants. “I’m done dancing tonight.”

But Red’s isn’t. He drives an elbow into Frank’s unprotected side before headbutting him and landing a fierce uppercut to his jaw. Then he kicks Frank’s feet out from under him while he’s still trying to clear the stars from his eyes and by the time he can focus his eyes again, Red’s gone.

* * *

Three days later, Frank lets himself into his apartment, and Red’s there waiting for him. It’s one of the last shitty little squats left in Alphabet City, because even though DHS made him whole again after the Cerberus cluster, Frank’s not interested in leaving a paper trail of leases all over New York.

He’s just twigged to the open window when Red grabs him in a chokehold as he closes the door and muscles him down to the floor. But he hasn’t learned his lesson—Frank’s still bigger—unless he has, because when he gets Red pinned on the deck this time he’s pretty sure Red lets him.

“Change your mind?” Frank asks, ignoring the way Red bucks his hips beneath him.

Red doesn’t answer, but he bites Frank’s arm.

“Oh, hell no,” Frank grunts, and there’s no mistaking Red’s hard-on this time. It’s entirely too easy to flip him on his belly, to ignore the gasp of pain Red makes when his dick gets crammed against the peeling linoleum, to pin his shoulders down with an arm and bite his ear.

“This what you want, Red?”

He still doesn’t answer, a goddamn martyr who doesn’t know how to say yes, so Frank asks another question.

“Suit yourself. How you gonna tell me to stop, Red?”

Red shakes his head and wriggles against him like a trapped cat, but Frank jams his arm down harder against the back of Red’s neck and repeats the question.

Red stops fighting for a moment and gets an awful shit-eating grin. “Karen,” he whispers.

“You don’t deserve to put her name in your mouth,” Frank growls, bearing down so hard he can feel Red’s heart pounding through his back.

“Karen,” he repeats.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Frank mutters, but of course Red won’t say, just presses his ass against Frank’s cock like it answers his question.

_Maybe it does_ , Frank thinks, yanking Red’s unbelted pants down past his ass, really not caring if they snag Red’s cock on the way down. He gets his fly open in two quick movements, spits in his palm and works his own cock hard. It doesn’t take long.

For a split second he thinks about warning Red, but doesn’t, just jams himself in good. He fucks Red hard and fast and half a dozen pumps later he’s done and Red is gasping like a landed fish on his floor.

“Feel better?” Frank asks, rolling off him and getting to his feet. His dick’s clean as a whistle, which means the little twerp’s been planning this all night. God almighty, the devil’s just a goddamn human disaster.

Red doesn’t answer, just turns on his side and works his pants back up.

Frank goes over to the fridge and grabs two beers. Hands one to Red, but he doesn’t take it—just does what he does last time, forces his breath steady until he can kneel, then stand. Jesus, he’s still hard, but he doesn’t do anything about it, just stands there like a big dumb baby till the big top in his pants starts to wilt a little.

As soon as he can walk again, he’s out the window and gone.

* * *

Almost a week passes and Frank thinks that’s the last he’s seen of Red for a while until he’s rolling through the Meatpacking District on his way to the docks and spots the dumbass in his slim charcoal suit and hipster shades laughing with a brunette in heels on their way out of a restaurant. Frank doesn’t dare roll his window down to listen, but Red somehow clocks him anyway, flipping him the bird behind the brunette’s back before taking her arm.

Red ignores him all the way down the block until he and the brunette climb, laughing and groping at each other, into a waiting cab.

Three days later the little shit is back in his apartment.

“Who’s the skirt?” Frank asks amiably, kicking the door shut behind him.

“None of your business,” Red mutters.

“But she don’t give you what you need,” Frank says.

“Also none of your business.”

“Sixteen years in the Marines was enough to teach me how to recognize a man who wants what a woman can’t give him,” Frank says.

“She gives me plenty.” Red’s petulant now, defending his girl’s honor. Christ, he’s exhausting.

“But not enough,” Frank says, closing the distance in three swift steps to grab Red in his arms, yank his head back by the hair and kiss him hard enough to draw blood against his teeth.

“Fuck you,” Red groans, working his hands up Frank’s shirt.

Frank grabs his wrists and clamps his arms to his sides. “I give you permission to do that, Red?”

“I take what I want.”

“Not here you don’t,” Frank said. “And it’s ‘I take what I want, sir.’”

Red laughs, and when Frank cuffs him backhanded across the jaw for it, he laughs again.

“I take what I want, _sir_ ,” he says slyly, and Frank smacks him again for his insolence.

Red staggers back, touching his hand to his fat lip and shaking his head.

“How you gonna tell me to stop, Red?” Frank asks.

“’Karen.’”

He hits Red again, harder this time. He’ll have a good bruise to explain to the skirt come morning, but that’s probably par for the course for this idiot, no matter how he gets ‘em.

“Or would you prefer ‘Maria?’”

Frank muscles him up against the wall and knocks the breath out of him for that one.

“’Karen,’ then,” Red gasps, with that godawful insane grin on his face.  

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Red?” Frank asks him again.

“So, so many things,” Red answers giddily, grabbing at Frank’s belt and pulling him close.

“So many things, _sir_ ,” Frank reminds him, roughly capturing Red’s wrists one at a time and twisting them hard behind his back. He uses the leverage to pull Red away from the wall and push him hard onto the bed, where he just sprawls out on his belly and laughs like a fucking idiot.

“Yes _sir_ ,” Red says with mock seriousness, glancing back in that crazy blank way of his, even throwing in a half-assed salute for good measure.

Frank straddles over him and grabs his arms, pinning them hard above his head with one hand, using the other to unclip the handcuffs secured to the back of his belt. “That salute was a fucking disgrace,” he growls, catching one of Red’s wrists in the cuffs before threading the other behind a rail on the headboard.

“No,” Red says, going pale. “Please don’t. I’m blind. I need my hands. I just—I need my hands.”

Frank studies him for a moment, trying to decide if it’s real panic or something else. He’s clearly scared, but then again, he knows this asshole didn’t come here to spoon. “Say the word,” he reminds him.

But Red just bites his lip and wrinkles his forehead like he’s trying to decide whether or not he’s got time to take a shit before his next meeting. A tear slides down his cheek. Then, ever so slightly, he shakes his head no.

“I didn’t think so,” Frank said, securing Red’s other hand in the cuffs. Red’s still freaking out a little, though, groping around as best he can with less than three inches of clearance in either direction, but eventually he gives up and curls his fingers around the rail in defeat.

“I’m not going to ask again,” Frank says, gently but firmly. “You want me to stop, it’s on you.”

Red nods, and Christ, there’s that dumb grin again.

“You are one fucked-up little shit,” Frank says wonderingly, yanking Red’s shirt up to his neck and biting the soft part under his arm, hard

Red gasps and kicks, and Frank bites again, even harder.

* * *

It gets fun after that. They start playing hide-and-seek all over the damn city, Frank rolling around in his van, trying to follow him, catch him out with the pretty skirt without Red spotting him. Frank can always tell when he does; Red shoots him a tiny nod or shrug, something the skirt doesn’t notice because the skirt doesn’t know, he realizes. She doesn’t know what he does, what he can do. She doesn’t know who he really is.

Whenever Frank catches him, Red has three hours to ditch the skirt and get his blind ass over to Avenue D so Frank can teach him to be more careful.

But Red, he knows, doesn’t want to be more careful, because Frank catches him again and again and again.

The punishment is delicious. Handcuffs, always. Sometimes on the bed, other times looped over a steel meat hook mounted exactly seven feet, three inches from the floor, so Red’s toes barely touch the ground.

 They play with things, with alligator clips and belts, with knife tips and beer bottles, with a cock rings improvised out of a plumbing gasket and a gag rigged from a length of 2” nylon marine rope. Store-bought toys are for pussies.

And like a good Catholic boy who knows he’s going to Hell, Red takes everything Frank dishes out, and never once says Karen’s name.

One Thursday night he spots Red and the skirt in the kind of shitty Lower East Side bar Frank would never take anyone he was trying to impress, but then, the stupid little fuck was blind. At least he’s not wearing the suit this time; tonight it’s skinny jeans and a just-tight-enough t-shirt, the muscles of his arms carved in sharp relief in the neon light cutting through the dark of the bar.

Frank parks the van in the alley but he walks in the front door, working through the crowd so he passes right behind Red, moving just slow enough to reach his hand under Red’s ass and give his balls a good squeeze before pushing on to the bar and ordering a beer. Red was leaning in to hear his girl talk when Frank grabbed him; he didn’t so much as twitch when Frank squeezed. Christ.

Frank parks at the end of the bar, studying-but-not-studying Red as he flirts with his girl. He’s putting on a good show tonight, whispering in her ear, pressing his smile against her face when he makes her laugh, pecking the curve of her jaw for good measure. She’s over the moon for him, this pretty girl; they touch each other constantly while they talk, Red’s hand on her arm or her waist, the skirt brushing the hair off his forehead or hooking her thumb into the waistband of his jeans. They’re cute as goddamned teenagers, still charming the fuck out of each other with bright smiles and wit and hormones so thick Frank can smell them from across the room.

When Frank finishes his beer he fixes a hard three-second look at Red and then nods slightly toward the bathroom; Red doesn’t need to be facing him to pick it up, and pick it up he does, quickly opening his hand behind the skirt’s back to flash the number five. Frank nods to nobody in particular to acknowledge the transmission.

By the time he gets to the bathroom the negotiation’s already begun—the skirt’s asking the bartender where the head is, the bartender’s pointing to where Frank’s already standing, she’s translating the point into directions into Red’s ear and trying to take his arm, wanting to guide him, and he’s refusing, insisting he’s a big boy and can find the shitter on his own.

God, they’re so fucking cute.

Well, he trusts Red to shake his girl. Frank tries the men’s room door; it’s unlocked, but instead of going in he stands outside like he’s waiting in line. He’s scrolling through his phone like he’s got anyone else in the world to talk to tonight until Red makes it to bathroom hallway. As soon as he turns the corner, Frank opens the bathroom door and steps in, closing the door behind him.

Quarter of a minute later, Red lets himself in and tips his cane into the corner with a practiced flick of the hand. Showing off, the proud little fuck.

“Don’t ever do this again,” he says mildly. “ _Sir_.”

There’s a warning in his voice, a real one; Frank’s crossed a line tonight, at long last, but Red’s going to let it stay crossed for a little while, just long enough for Frank to lash his moony white ass with his belt till it’s crisscrossed with welts so swollen Frank can feel the heat radiating from his skin without touching it.

When Red turns around he’s so hard he can barely stand up straight. Frank wraps his fist around Red’s cock and squeezes once, twice, and then just holds him tight till Red’s hips shudder and he comes all over the shitty dive’s bathroom floor.

“Thank you, _sir_ ,” Red says, that naughty irony creeping back into his voice. If they were at Frank’s he’d slap him for his sass, but Frank knows he’s out of bounds enough as it is, so he just scowls as Red zips his jeans. “But seriously. If you ever try this again—it’s _Karen_. For good.”

* * *

But Red comes back. It’s pouring rain this time; Red’s left a puddle so big on Frank’s floor it’s like he’s brought half the weather inside with him.

“Get that shit off,” Frank growls, and Red strips gratefully, laying his clothes over the radiator to dry.

No sooner are the clothes dealt with that Frank’s hand is on his neck and he’s frog-marching Red to the bed and into the cuffs, ignoring his predictable pleas to keep his hands free. It still scares him to have his hands restrained, honest to Christ, but he wants it, never says no, never says _Karen_.

This time Frank shackles his ankles, too, but that’s not where tonight is going to end, no. Next Frank twists a pair of high-decibel foam earplugs into Red’s ears and lets them expand tight.

“You hear me, Red?” Frank asks, but Red doesn’t answer, just twists his head trying to get a bead on him. Frank puts his palm on Red’s cheek and he grins, that stupid shit-eating grin again, and nods. He’s squirming like a baby in a warm bath. He likes this.

Frank flicks Red’s nipple hard with his thumb, and grins as Red gasps and arches his back a little, asking for more. Frank gives him another, and that’s all it takes for Red to spring to attention like the predictable little shit that he is. Frank flicks Red’s belly and he bucks and rolls his hips, his stupid little boner hunting for something, anything to touch.

Frank flicks the tender skin on Red’s side, just under the rib, and instead of gasping he giggles; he’s ticklish, Frank realizes, and it’s a revelation, and for the first time since this game began six weeks ago, Frank smiles.

He tickles him again, and Red laughs now for real, trying to twist away but he’s having the time of his life right now, and just as he twists away again, Frank reaches over and tickles his other side, and now Red’s shaking with laughter.

It’s infectious, Red’s laughter, and Frank laughs too, though he doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to lose sight of the mission here, which is to make Red feel like he’s paying for whatever sin he comes here to repent for. So once he’s got Red laughing good and hard, he slaps him hard across the mouth once, then twice, then bends over and sinks his teeth into the curve of Red’s neck while he’s still stunned from the hits.

Red twists his head away and groans, but there’s nothing keeping him from talking, he doesn’t say Karen’s name, so Frank keeps biting, down his neck and chest and worrying his left nipple raw.

Red groans, a deep rumble in his chest and Frank growls back, Red’s nipple still between his teeth. Red feels it, takes a long shaking breath, and while his belly’s sucked in for breath Frank dives down and bites his bottom rib.

Red yelps and jerks away, and Frank decides to give the poor kid a break for a while. He switches to his tongue, gently flicking it like a snake’s across the line of Red’s bottom ribs, pausing to suck a little on the divot beneath his sternum, eliciting a sigh so vocal it’s almost a song.

Frank licks his way down Red’s belly slow and light, like Red’s a lollipop Frank wants to make last all afternoon. He glances up at Red’s face; the dumb fuck looks confused, like this wasn’t what he signed up for, but that’s only because he’s got no imagination. When Red’s like this he’s not playing chess; he’s barely playing ping-pong, barely thinking one move ahead. Time doesn’t exist for him right now, this is everything and forever, this moment when Frank’s tongue contacts his sweat-damp skin and the muscles of his belly contract with shuddering breaths again and again forever, a ceaselessly repeating loop of pleasure and touch.

But Frank? He’s a sniper. Anticipation is his middle name. And he’s damn good at chess.

When Frank reaches the fine-haired outskirts of Red’s groin, Red exhales loudly, vocally, and his hips buck, his dick dripping with want and renewing its blind search for contact.

Frank sits back and regards him passively for a minute before getting off the bed and taking a lap around the room to consider his next move. Red’s aware that he’s gone, he’s felt the bed shift and lighten, but he can’t seem to track Frank as he circles the apartment—his head is just twitching this way and that, without rhyme or reason, seemingly to grope at this smell or that air current for any hint of a clue as to where Frank is.

Frank approaches the foot of the bed, leans over the footboard and reaches up toward Red’s desperately waving dick. It’s getting worse, Frank can tell—Red’s so close to the edge, he can smell it. Frank curls his middle finger hard beneath his thumb, builds up as much tension as he can, and flicks the base of Red’s cock hard enough to leave a welt.

Red howls and comes at the same time, and Christ, it’s beautiful to watch. Once he’s empty he tries to curl up, but he can’t; there’s not enough give in the shackles or the cuffs for him to do much more than tilt his hips down.

Frank touches Red’s ankle gently, then releases the shackle from that foot, and then does the same for his other leg. Red curls up painfully onto his side, twisting against his shoulders, and Frank quickly moves to the head of the bed to remove the earplugs, then releases his wrists and gently guides his arms down to meet his knees so he can rest fully fetal on his side. Then he begins to weep. Frank just rubs his lower back and keeps his mouth shut; Red doesn’t need to be reminded how fucked up he is right now.

After a little while, Red calms a little and tries to sit up. But his arms are still shaking and he’s still crying a little and though he’s trying to get up, he’s mostly just scrabbling uselessly for purchase against the sagging mattress.

“Chill out, Red,” Frank mutters, working out a knot in Red’s shoulder. “Give yourself a minute this time, okay?”

Red gulps and nods, and then, for the first time, turns toward Frank and grabs his hand and holds it tight.

Frank flinches at first but doesn’t pull away. Instead he reaches down and gathers Red in his arms and holds him like the big dumb baby he is against his chest, rocking him a little and pressing his chin against the top of Red’s head until his breathing steadies and he starts to pull away.

Frank helps him sit up against the headboard, slipping the pillow behind him so the ironwork doesn’t cut into his back. “Stay,” he orders softly, and this time Red obeys. Frank goes to the kitchen and comes back with two beers, and this time Red accepts one.

“You got issues,” Frank says gruffly.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Red says. He’s leaning back against the pillow, head tipped back, eyes open and staring in their strange dead way. No matter how Red tries to explain how he does what he does, Frank will never get it.

“I’m not gonna be your penance anymore, Red,” Frank says. “Whatever you did, you aren’t gonna pay for it with me.”

“Aren’t you the Punisher?” Red asks archly, but he’s too spent for it to have any edge.

“The day I decide to punish you, Red, you’ll know.”

Red laughs weakly and takes a long swallow of beer. “The girl. I’m letting her get too close. I don’t want to lose her, but I don’t know how to keep explaining my injuries.”

“So, what, you figured you’d just see how many bite marks she can ignore till she dumps your ass?”

“Like you said, I have issues.”

Frank sighs and drains his beer. “I’m gonna take a shower. Be gone by the time I get out, okay?”

He is.

He doesn't come back.

**Author's Note:**

> IDK y'all, I like to live in the dark places, but that turned out darker than I realized. I think I need a shower. And hugs.


End file.
